


Confetti

by IntravenousDollhouse



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Cake, Chubstuck, Forced-Feeding, Horror, M/M, Nightmares, Other, Weight-gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-14
Updated: 2012-06-14
Packaged: 2017-11-07 17:33:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/433653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntravenousDollhouse/pseuds/IntravenousDollhouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A counter-fic to “Deadtime Jingle.”  After Dave confides in him, John experiences his own nightmare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confetti

**Author's Note:**

> Extreme weight gain (descriptive), forced-feeding, mild horror, and non-con (only suggestive touching). If these things are not your cup of tea, now's the time to retreat. : )

The moment Dave shares his nightmare with you is the catalyst.

You’re sure it’s going to happen -- he described everything so vividly, from the atmosphere to the color of the vomit -- you’re pretty much doomed to have your own ice-cream inspired nightmare. It could be worse, you figure, since you actually really like ice-cream. Sure, the puking part is going to suck, but hey, it’s supposed to be the most delicious thing you’ve ever tasted.

Despite your unfailing optimism, the thought of dreaming your own grisly demise is unpleasant. You stay awake as long as you can that night -- pouring your attention into creating what is possibly the most awesome lullaby mixed-tape to ever exist.

You fall asleep upright; forced into submission by your exhaustion.

The world you wake up to is not Dave’s nightmare. Well, not quite. The sky is the same dripping mess of bubblegum tendons and jaundiced dream-clouds, and the road is paved with the sticky, throbbing green puss-brick, but you cannot hear a jingle. That’s what matters.

As long as you avoid the ice-cream man, you should be safe.

Though you typically sleep in the woolly blue socks your dad gave you last Christmas, you find that your feet are bare in the dream. Every step you take along the road is hindered by the tackiness of the brick. Maybe it isn’t exactly how Dave described it -- after all, he was able to run and catch up to the truck, while you’re having a hard time even maintaining a half-way reasonable pace.

To the side of the road is a large expanse of what looks like purple grass. You fling yourself into it, wincing as your skin peels away from the tenacious brick. It stings badly, almost as if your flesh had begun fusing with the ground.

You check the bottoms of your feet -- sure enough, they’re bleeding. At least, you think they are. Blood the same color you like to type in seeps from tender, open sores. Tentatively, you press a finger to your heel, which looks the worst. The pain is intense. You lose your balance and fall into the tall grass. Only one foot is bleeding significantly. The less dominant foot betrays only a tiny trickle of ultramarine. You tactically divert your attention from the pain and examine the grass -- or whatever it is. It’s more like a type of sea-plant. Thin, tubular, and rubbery.

The ardent compulsion to bite down into the plant grips you suddenly. You sink your teeth into it before you can reason with yourself, and warm syrupy liquid explodes through the burst tube and gushes down your throat. You don’t consume the tough, slick casing, but focus on the liquid. It splashes into your lap as you drain a couple more plants. The syrup tastes like liquified lollipops, and though you’d usually consider that sort of thing to be too sugary and overpowering, it’s somehow addictive. You can’t stop yourself from grabbing tube after tube. The pain of your partially skinned feet is the mere remnant of a distant memory.

Music is what jounces you free from the trance. Not the jingle of an ice-cream truck, but of one of those crappy ‘singing’ candles that plays out the tune of ‘Happy Birthday,’ or whatever else in an artificial chime. It creeps you right the heck out, but you don’t pay attention to it for very long once you notice something pale and fleshy creeping out from under your nightshirt. 

“Wow, how’d I get so big!?” You shake the flesh of your newly distinguished belly in disbelief.

“Okay. It’s fine. It’s just a dream. That plant stuff must be magical or something.” 

The wonder in your own voice disgusts you. It’s not cool. Getting fat is going to be the least of your problems -- what if the stuff makes you start coughing up your innards?

“No, no, no! Don’t think about that stuff.” 

You clutch yourself tightly, marveling at how squishy your body is. It’s kind of comforting. Like being surrounded by a miniature pillow-fort. You used to make those when you were a kid. Okay, to be honest, you still make those.

The music continues to play, slicing through the sweet-smelling breeze.

This place isn’t so bad, you try to convince yourself. The temperature is perfect, the plants taste good, and you’re not lying in a gooey pool of your own guts yet. Still, you get the feeling that if you remain here for too long, you’ll end up eating the entire field. 

Your head traces the general location of the music. It’s annoying, but it freed you from the plants’ spell. It can’t be a bad thing. You feel something flutter down onto your head and snatch at it quickly -- still on edge. Pink, blue, and silver bits of confetti rest on your palm inoffensively. They’re shaped like little balloons and smiley faces. Some are even cut out as intricately patterned cakes. You secretly hate cake -- have never trusted it completely -- but the confetti makes you smile. It’s so pretty and festive. You wonder whose birthday it is. 

Only one way to find out.

It’s the safest course of action. You cannot stay in the field any longer; not with the hunger you feel blossoming inside. It’s far too risky, and though it’s just a dream -- not even a true nightmare at this point -- you’re still worried about the weight you’ve gained. 

You attempt to rise to your feet, cringing at the raw stab of pain. 

“Okay, I guess I’ll just sort of...hop?” 

The one foot is relatively painless to tread upon, as long as you don’t let it rub against anything for too long. You make your way towards the source of the music, simultaneously pursuing the overhead swirl of glittering confetti. 

Occasionally, some of it trickles down the back of your neck. The more it touches you, the more your anxiety melts away, until you’re left feeling calm and content. The new curves of your body are actually pretty nice, sure, all soft and bouncy. You’ll never have to be super sore after sitting in front of the computer monitor for long periods of time again. Wait.

Why are your thoughts suggesting you’ll be this way when you wake up? A spike of familiar dread punches through your happy-haze, but when a sudden shower of confetti rains down on you, the concern is forgotten.

All you can see is sparkling merriment.

You reach the door, led up the gummy steps by the whirlwind of confetti. Despite your jovial state, you’re still a little nervous about interrupting the party. It might be kind of rude. You knock softly on the sturdy, painted wood, resolved to leave if no one responds. 

Someone does respond, though.

Dave swings the door open confidently. “I’ve been waiting up for you, man.”

“You have?”

“Yeah, way to be late for your own birthday.” He smirks at you coyly. 

You’re a bit confused, so you chuckle as he leads you inside. “It’s not my birthday!”

“Is too.”

“Is not.”

“Dude,” He rolls his eyes and indicates the calendar on the wall, “It’s April 13th. Otherwise known as your birthday. Happy fucking birthday, Egbert!”

The calendar isn’t made of paper -- it’s painted on the wall in what looks like strawberry jam. The date is marked with a haunting red ‘x’. Maybe it is your birthday in the dream world. That doesn’t really make sense, of course, but neither do diabolical lollipop plants and skin-stealing roads.

“Uh, well, okay. Thanks! So, what are you doing here?”

“In your dream, you mean.” 

It’s a statement, not a question. At least Dave is being straightforward. It makes you want to trust him a little more.

“Well, yeah.”

“Dunno. Psychic connection maybe? Or I could just be a figment of your dreaming mind.”

“I guess the second one kinda makes sense. I mean, I did talk to you before going to sleep so you’re probably the last person I thought about before crashing.”

“Yeah?” 

Dave turns his back on you, casually going into the attached room and returning with a large cake. That’s when you notice your surroundings. It’s dark, except for the firelight coming off a series of toyish candles set into the walls. The flames are different colors -- none of them appropriate for fire.

There’s a large glass case spanning the length of one wall. An assortment of cakes are stacked on intricate pedestals inside. You’re in a bakery. Of all places.

“Oh, no, Dave we gotta get out of here!”

“Aw, come on, this cake is just for you.” He has a composed demeanor, but there’s a hint of impatience in his voice.

“You know I hate cake.” 

At this, Dave smiles. 

“Not this one, man. This cake is pretty much the epitome of quality. Just give it a shot. If you don’t like it, we can ditch this place and go somewhere better.”

You nod, transfixed by his eager expression. How can you turn your best friend down? He’s not asking for much.

“Well, okay. Why not? This cake better be spectacular though, just saying.”

“Would I lie to you?” Dave raises an eyebrow. It appears over the arch of the sunglasses you sent him back in December; suspiciously flirty.

“Nah.” 

You grin and snatch up the fork that he laid on the table, digging into the cake with an overzealous enthusiasm. You don’t want Dave to think you’re being a jerk. Of course you can give it a try if he wants you to. You’ve grown up with leagues of Betty Crocker product worming its way into your gut; a couple decent bites of cake aren’t going to defeat you.

Still, there’s something you need to know.

“Dave. This cake isn’t from the Batterwitch, right?” It’s a weird question. You’re in a bakery. Presumably, everything is made from scratch.

He shrugs in response. “Well, there might be a touch of Crocker in there, but don’t freak out. It’s just a brand.”

Your pulse drums against the base of your throat. It’s just a brand. Right. No big deal.

The fork slides into the cake with ease. It’s soft, moist, and fluffy. A flawless confection. You raise the procured morsel to your mouth and pop it in whole. The flavor bursts on your tongue; velvety vanilla with a faint essence of coconut in the frosting. You’re immediately addicted, devotedly digging your fork into the cake and shoveling more into your mouth. Dave doesn’t touch his own slice. Instead, he slides it subtly towards you.

You reach an unexpected center. It’s pliant, but firm. Dave shuffles his seat closer to you. 

“Here.” 

He produces a large knife -- you’d be curious as to where he grabbed it from, but you’re kind of distracted by what happens after he stabs into the strange substance.

An infant tidal wave of thick, opaque pink slime splashes across the table and onto your lap. It’s warm and wet on your crotch; like saliva.

“Go on, lap it up. It’s delicious, I promise.” Dave encourages you in his low, suave voice. Smooth as butter -- or slime.

You nod. It’s weird, but you’re pretty excited to try the pink goo. It’s got a nice glow to it. Pressing your face to the table is actually a little bit difficult because of your thick double chin -- since when do you even have one of those? Dave is intent on helping you out though. He runs his fingers through the slime, lifting them to your mouth. If it wasn’t a dream, you’d be worried about leading him on. 

The chair below you creaks in a sinister manner. Dave notices first and smiles serenely, waiting for the inevitable.

You’re just relieved when you’re not impaled by one of the many shards of painted wood that clatter to the ground first. Your flesh quakes like liquid when it meets solid tile, and for the second time, you return to full consciousness.

“Whoa, Dave, what the fuck is going on!? Why am I so huge?”

“I dunno. Maybe you’re just a major glutton.” He crouches besides you, cradling the tray of cake. 

“You’re not done yet, Egbert. Keep doing what you’re good at.”

His sentiments have abruptly degenerated into cruelty, but it’s his expression that intimidates you more. A mixture of derision and arousal -- neither are things you’d expected to see Dave direct towards you.

“Please don’t. I can’t even move...this isn’t funny.”

“I agree.” Dave mutters, climbing closer to you and squishing against the gelatinous folds of your immense belly; forcing the cake into your mouth.

“This isn’t funny, really. It’s fucking provocative. You’re helpless, you know that?”

He’s right. You try to shift away from him, but it’s no good. You can’t even lift your arms to push him away. Dave’s got you trapped -- immobilized by your own body. You’re the only one to blame for it too, on top of everything else. 

There’s no way of preventing him from tipping the rest of the slime on the tray into your mouth. It still tastes fine -- mildly sweet -- but now that you’re not in a daze it isn’t nearly as intoxicating as it was before. The cake is just cake. Obviously Betty Crocker. You try to keep yourself from choking or vomiting as he begins to feed the rest of it to you.

Flesh is expanding around you, spreading in all directions and blanketing you in macabre coziness. 

Dave licks frosting from your supple cheek, grinding his hips into the creamy roll of fat pushed out from beneath the hypnotizing swell of your chest. He presses his lips to your ear.

“Cheer up, bro. You got off lucky tonight.”

He trails his lips back to your face, halting them a centimeter from yours.

You bolt out of bed, awake and judiciously alarmed. The shorts you fell asleep in are soaked in sweat -- not a cold sweat, from incensed nerves -- but a hot sweat. Your entire body feels warm and feverish. The clothes need to go. You reach down to slide your shorts off but are stopped short. A round and ponderous belly hangs a good few inches over the waistband, obscuring it from view completely. You rush to the bathroom to examine your body, panicked by the way your love handles quiver below the seam of your too-small shirt, and the way your thick thighs jostle each other.

The reflection in the mirror is a John completely foreign to the one you fell asleep as. Your belly is rounded, drooping down even further than you previously noticed. Your thighs are pillowy and soft, pressing against each other affectionately. The face that stares back at you with obvious surprise is plump and youthful, graced with a small double-chin. 

When you wander downstairs a few minutes later in a stupor, your dad offers you a massive stack of pancakes drenched in butter and maple syrup. He doesn’t notice how much you’ve changed. To him, you’ve always been this way.

You send the mixed-tape to Dave -- the real Dave; hoping it will do him more good than it did you.


End file.
